


fight to the final breath

by Iverna



Series: Camelot Renaissance [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Whump, also a teeny bit of captain swan, sorry killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 16:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: Camelot AU in which Arthur gets his hands on Killian and decides to make an example of him. If you like seeing Killian in peril and getting roughed up, this one's for you. If you don’t like that, maybe skip this one. I don't think it's overly graphic so I'm not using that warning, so as not to clog up the tag with content that doesn't live up to the warning. But this is pretty much 100% whump, so, bear that in mind.





	fight to the final breath

None of the glamour and beauty of Camelot had made it down to the dungeons. Killian struggled to keep his feet under him as Arthur’s guards shoved him roughly down the uneven stone steps. The flickering light from the guards’ torches lit the narrow passage below, just enough to see that there was no way out save the one he’d come by.

The rope they’d tied around his torso dug into his arms with every step, every awkward movement as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The manacle around his wrist was digging into his skin; useless as it was, they hadn’t bothered removing it, and he was quite sure he knew what they had planned for it.

“Easy with the merchandise, lads,” he grunted as he almost tripped. In response, the guard on his left gave him a shove, sending him crashing against the guard on his right. The edge of the man’s breast plate dug into his upper arm, pain spiking up into his shoulder.

They pushed him into a cell, and he hit the opposite wall, unable to brace himself. Before he could get his balance back, the guard had seized him. Killian arched his back and tried to throw the guard off, but he stopped abruptly when he felt a sharp blade press into his throat.

“One more move, and you’re dead,” the guard promised.

It was a familiar feeling; Killian had been in situations like this countless times. Enough times to know when the blade was being held by someone who wouldn’t hesitate.

He stood frozen as the other guard unbound the rope, then seized the manacle on his hand and attached it to a chain. Killian couldn’t see it, but from the sounds of it, it was hanging from the ceiling.

The guard released him and stepped back. As they moved in to tie his legs, Killian threw himself forward, unable to sit idly by. The chain snapped taut and his arm was wrenched back, but he had enough reach to catch one of the guards with the brace on his other arm. The heavy leather hit the man right in the face, and he fell back, cursing.

But the other guard was still on his feet, and in reach. He punched Killian in the stomach, hard enough to wind him, and followed up with a punch that caught him just under his right eye. Then he pushed his forearm across Killian’s throat, and pressed him back into the wall.

“Don’t try it,” he growled. “Larkin, get his damn legs. If he kicks you,” he leered at Killian, “stab ‘im. His Majesty wants him alive, not well.”

Still winded from the punch, the guard’s arm pressing in on his windpipe, Killian fought to draw breath as Larkin bound his legs. Panic was rising, automatic and unavoidable, as his lungs screamed for air. Pain shot through his ankles as Larkin tighten the ropes, but Killian ignored it, focusing on his next breath, and the one after that.

Larkin straightened. “Done.”

With one final shove, the other guard stepped away from Killian, who gasped for breath.

“Enjoy your stay,” Larkin said with a leer, and they left. The cell door slammed shut, the heavy bolt slid into place, the key turned... and Killian was trapped.

He watched the flickering torchlight disappear, heard the echo of the guards’ footsteps die away as they made their way back to the nicer parts of the castle.

He turned his attention to the chain. It was fastened somewhere above him in the darkness, and he realised quickly that it wasn’t long enough to reach the ground. He could just about sit with his arm stretched up above him, the iron rubbing against the skin of his wrist.

He pressed his lips together, the reality of his situation crashing down around him. He was caught, good and proper, with no way out that he could see. The others had gotten away, but the moment Emma found out where he was, she’d be coming for him.

The problem was that Arthur undoubtedly knew that too. And he’d be ready for her. In fact, Killian was pretty sure that this entire thing was a trap—and he was the bait.

He gritted his teeth. Bait he might be, but he wasn’t beaten yet.

It took some clever twisting and a lot of grunting and cursing, but he managed to get his feet up to where his hand could reach the ropes. The uneven stone floor dug painfully into his back, but he ignored it as best he could. Bruises were nothing. He needed to get out of here.

The manacle rubbed his wrist raw as he worked to untie the rope, but it worked. He let his feet drop back to the ground, panting, his wrist screaming at him. But his legs, at least, were free.

Unfortunately, that was as far as he got. There was a way to pick a manacle lock one-handed, but not without any tools, and he had none. They’d searched him thoroughly and stripped him down to his shirt and breeches, leaving him with very little to work with.

He did have a length of rope, but try as he might, he couldn’t find a use for it. In the end, he managed to fashion it into a sling of sorts to help support his manacled arm, which was getting tired.

He stood for a while to give his arm a break from the uncomfortable position. Then he sat again, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his wrist, the strain in his arm, the lingering ache of the bruise that was forming on his cheek.

What was Arthur planning?

He didn’t know how long he spent in the cell. There was no daylight, just persistent darkness. No one showed up with food or water. That, too, was familiar; as a boy, he’d spent plenty of time belowdecks, alone in the dark, and often hungry.

_You eat when you’ve earned it_ , the captain would say. Killian, by far the youngest aboard, had been bad at earning it. But he’d had his brother, back then. He’d eaten when Liam had earned it, too.

He swallowed, and tried to banish the memories. He didn’t want to remember those days.

His stomach was hollow and beginning to ache by the time he heard footsteps again. He was standing, trying to ease the ache in his arm and ignoring the protest from his tired legs. Torch light flickered, and Killian recognised the figure sauntering towards him.

“Your Majesty,” he said, relieved when his voice didn’t fail him. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Still witty as ever, I see.” Arthur gestured for the guard to unlock the door, and stepped through it. “And here I thought the accommodations might dampen your spirits.”

Killian smirked at him. “Well, they aren’t up to the usual standards, but we’ve all learned to lower our expectations when it comes to you.”

Arthur’s expression lost some of its nonchalance, a frown fighting to draw his brows together. “You’re only making this easier for me, captain.”

Killian only raised his eyebrows, trying to look as if he barely cared. Exhaustion was nipping at him. He’d probably spent the entire night here.

“Well, we do need to make sure the Savior knows you’re here, don’t we?” Arthur said conversationally, holding out his hand. The guard behind him placed a knife into it. “And in dear need of saving.”

Killian’s throat had gone a little dry. “She’s too smart to wander into your trap.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agreed. “Maybe not. I suppose we’ll find out.”

He stepped closer. The guard joined him, seizing Killian’s arm and pinning it in place.

“I see you undid the ropes,” Arthur said. “My, my. That must have been quite the feat. How frustrating for you that it was for nothing. All it bought you was an extra cut.”

He set the tip of the serrated blade against Killian’s collarbone, and sliced down.

Skin tore. Blood welled. Sharp, liquid agony lanced through him, and he ground his teeth together, trying not to scream with the pain of it.

“Do you think she’ll feel it?” Arthur wondered aloud. “I think she will.”

Killian didn’t answer.

Arthur withdrew the knife and flipped it to his other hand. Then he punched, right on the cut.

Killian screamed.

Arthur smirked, and hit him again. And again. Killian tasted blood, his nostrils clogging with the smell of it as Arthur’s fist connected with his nose, then his stomach again. He wanted to sag to the floor and curl up, but he couldn’t, his manacled hand keeping him upright. He couldn’t protect himself, couldn’t even brace himself under the assault.

Eventually, Arthur stepped back, a sadistic gleam in his eyes. “Very good,” he said softly. “I think we got the message out quite well, don’t you?”

Killian glared at him, not trusting his voice to work.

Arthur turned to go, beckoning to his guards. “You’ll hang at noon tomorrow,” he said. “Now excuse me, I need to make the announcement.”

Killian leaned back against the cold wall, his breath coming in painful gasps. His entire body hurt, all the way down to where Arthur had stomped on his bare feet and kicked his shins.

Hanged.

It was the spectre that loomed over every pirate. Death by hanging was the usual penalty, if one were caught. Killian had witnessed his share of hangings over the years, in the port towns he’d visited as a lad.

When he’d turned pirate himself, his solution had always been simple: don’t get caught.

How ironic that he’d end that way now, when he’d left piracy behind him.

He really hoped Emma would have the sense to stay away. She had to know that it was a trap.

Still, a selfish part of him, the part that wanted to curl up in agony, hoped she’d come for him, and succeed. He didn’t want to die. Not here, not like this. Not now he finally had something to live for.

The realist in him knew better. If the others came for him, they’d be caught in the same trap. If they didn’t, he’d hang alone.

He tried to make his peace with that, as he sat there with his knees drawn up, his arm and wrist aflame with an agony that almost drowned out the pain in the rest of him. He turned and twisted his feet around each other, rubbing one against the other as if he could push the pain away with the movement. Every now and again, a groan or a whimper escaped him despite his best efforts to stay silent, as the pain grew too much. He wished he’d pass out, but his brain held onto consciousness with familiar determination.

They’d left him some water; it was almost impossible to drink it, with no hand to grab the bowl, but he managed to bring it close enough using his feet. Undignified, perhaps, but even if someone had been watching, he was beyond caring.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when they came for him. He supposed it must be almost noon, but he didn’t know whether one day or two had passed since they’d thrown him in here.

They bound him again, the rope stinging and burning where it settled over his bruises and the cuts Arthur had inflicted. He was dragged to his feet, a pained groan escaping him as muscles shifted and blood pumped faster, every movement a fresh wave of agony.

He blinked when he emerged from the stairs, the light far too bright to handle after all that darkness. He didn’t pay attention to his surroundings, too intent on putting one foot in front of the other without faltering, without falling. He knew that if he fell, they would drag him onwards, and it would hurt all the more.

When they reached the courtyard, he squinted against the sunlight and looked around, hoping and praying that he wouldn’t see any familiar faces in the crowd. But there were too many people. Too much noise. He felt hot and sick, his stomach empty, his head too light.

Arthur sat on a dais across from the execution platform, where the noose was already hanging at the ready. Merlin stood next to him, expressionless, made docile by the blade that bound him. The guards shoved Killian up the steps, and he fell then, the edge of the top step digging into his shin.

“Get up,” growled one of the guards, and hauled him bodily back to his feet and onto the platform.

Something in Killian broke at the sight of the rope dangling right in front of him. He threw himself forward, breaking away from the guards by sheer luck. His legs were shaking, but he dove for the edge of the platform, straining against the rope. If he could just get one arm free, get his hands on a weapon—

Something heavy bowled him over from behind, and he collapsed to the ground. One of the guards had tackled him.

He fought them with everything he had as they led him over to the rope, but it was no good. He had no weapon, no magic, no final tricks up his sleeve.

They read out the charges—theft, coercion, conspiracy, armed rebellion against his majesty—and then the executioner came and drew the noose around his neck. The rope settled there, harsh and heavy and smelling like old sweat. Killian couldn’t breathe. His mind was racing, trying to come up with a last-minute plan, anything to get out and at least die on his own terms.

At least Emma and the others hadn’t been stupid enough to come for him. That was a comfort, cold as it was.

“Any last words, pirate?” Arthur asked, clearly intent on drawing this out as long as possible, his eyes flicking around the crowd.

“Not for you,” Killian spat. “Get on with it then, you bloody coward.”

“Very well.” Arthur sighed. “I had rather hoped she actually loved you. Or at least cared for you. But I suppose you were worthless after all.”

He gestured to the executioner. Killian wanted to scream, or run, or fight, but he couldn’t move without the noose constricting, and screaming wasn’t going to do any good.

There was a clank, and the floor beneath him fell away. He dropped—

And came to an abrupt halt in midair as something caught him. The noose was uncomfortably tight around his throat, pressing on the bruise that the guard had left there, but it wasn’t strangling him. He was floating.

He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to close his eyes and stay perfectly still, and he gave into it, thinking, _Emma_.

And as the world around him exploded into chaos, and Arthur began to yell, he opened his eyes again. Across from him, Merlin was still standing silently at Arthur’s side, but his eyes met Killian’s, and Killian knew: he wasn’t quite as bound as Arthur thought he was.

Something whirred by above him, and again, and the pressure around his throat eased as the rope fell. Moments later, he dropped to the ground underneath the platform; his legs gave way and he landed on his knees with a grunt. All around, Arthur’s guards were yelling and running around, trying to carry out an ambush that clearly hadn’t worked out the way they’d intended.

And then Emma was there, his hook in her hand, slicing the rope away. “You okay?”

“More or less,” he said, as she clicked the hook back into his brace and turned her attention to the manacle around his mangled wrist. He hissed in pain as she touched it. “Leave it. Doesn’t matter now. This was a trap—”

“I know,” she said impatiently. “Merlin’s got it covered. Come on.”

He should have known, he reflected wryly as she drew a sword and handed it to him, then produced another from a second sheath. He should have known that she’d find a way. She always did.

He was still sore all over, still bleeding and bruised, but it didn’t matter. He had a blade in his hand and his hook in its brace, and something to live for.

And live he would.

Biting back another pained groan, he tightened his grip on the sword, and followed Emma into the fight.


End file.
